


Alfrik Alfrikson

by espark



Category: The Battle of Polytopia (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fate, Ice Powers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espark/pseuds/espark
Summary: Aflrik's Polaris origin story.Inspired by users on the Polytopia discord server.https://discord.gg/polytopia
Relationships: Alfrik/Meep
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Alfrik Alfrikson

Dear Alfrik,

I’m writing to you because I never knew my father. Sure, I heard stories of him, but nothing about the man behind the stories. I want you to know a little something of me, the real me.

I’ll begin on the day I found out about you.

I was coming home from the Kiasda shores after a day of early spring ice fishing. Actually, that day I did the opposite of ice fishing. More like ice floundering or ice failuring (Is that a word? Ask your mother. She knows all kinds of amazing things like spelling and woodworking and knowing when I’m wrong.) All the holes I’d cut in the ice the day before had frozen over. Also, I’d had the brilliant foresight to leave my ice saw at home. I’d rechecked my maps, and cursed the weather, and tried singing ‘Siggeir the Stud,’ but nothing worked.

Why was I spending all day not-ice-fishing, you ask? Well, it's because your grandparents were never going to let me marry your mother unless I started earning a decent living.

Since the fish had decided to stay under the ice no matter how much I sang to them, I decided to head home. 

Your mother was waiting for me on the indecisive road just outside of town. You probably know the one I’m talking about. The road that starts off towards the sawmill, then changes its mind and angles back toward the fields. Why can’t roads make up their mind and just go one direction? Probably because someone was singing “Siggeir the Stud” when they made it.

The sun was low in the sky, as if it was sneaking down through the clouds to hide under the fertile Dalubiian fields. Although your mother was bundled in furs like any other Polaris citizen, I could tell it was her from the way she sets her hands on her hips and tilts her head, perpetually expecting me to do something foolish. You know the look.

I put my maps and fishing equipment down on the road and pulled her into a kiss. Have you noticed how your mother smells like sweet pine and nettle oil? I quite like it.

She pulled away and asked, looking down at my empty net, “Another poor haul?” 

“I wasn’t able to get any fish, but I did conquer Upper Mippipo, so on the whole, a pretty good day.”

I was hoping to get a giggle out of her, or at least a smile. Your mother has the most beautiful smile. It's like a ginger snap fresh from the oven, after one taste, you want more and more. 

But she didn’t smile. Instead her mouth stayed firm and she looked at the farmland in the distance. “Maybe you could ask for a job on one of the new farms? They say the new fields will produce a huge harvest.”

I tried again to make her smile.“Farming only produces two things, food and hernias. Doesn’t sound worth it to me.” 

“You know,” she looked at me carefully, like she was weighing her words like a freshly caught pike, “the extra food won’t be the only exciting thing come harvest time.”

Okay. The hernia joke wasn’t very funny, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I said, “Will I finally be able to sing you the entire ballad of Siggeir the Stud? You always stop me after the first verse. Some of the middle parts aren’t that dirty.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, and I was finally rewarded with the faintest of smiles. 

Then she said something that I will never forget. “Alfrik, you’re going to be a father.”

My brain froze. I stopped trying to think of something funny to say and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Maybe you’re just getting fat from eating so much Rødgrød with cream.”

That brought out a smile, the real thing with a bright laugh and dazzling eyes. She swatted me and said, “Alfrik!” in an exasperated tone. Then she added, “To be honest, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. We’ve been fooling around since the fall.”

“If that’s what you call fooling around, I want to see what you think having sex is like.”

Uh. Wait. You better not read that part until you have a full beard on your face. Wait. What if you’re a girl? Alright, at the very least, a mustache.

Then your mother asked me, “Are you happy?”

“Happy? I’m delighted. I’m ecstatic. I’m like that Papa walrus with flowing rolls of fat down his chest who sits on the biggest rock in the sun, taking credit but not really doing anything.”

Her face relaxed and I pulled her close. We stayed that way a long time, her head pressed into my shoulder, the gold sky turning to pink.

Finally, she pulled away and we started down the weaving road, back to Iqtaan city.

“When should we tell my parents?” she asked, kicking a chuck of ice down the road. “Maybe after the planting festival? Pa is usually cheery after the moose races.”

“No, as soon as possible. Today. I’ll go with you for dinner. If it’s radishes, I’ll just hold my nose.”

“Today?”

“Yes, as soon as possible means now. Unless you can turn back time. Then, we should tell them yesterday.”

“Maybe I should talk to them alone first. Soften the blow.” 

“I don’t know why your parents don’t like me. It's not like I’m some penniless fisherman who likes to sing dirty songs and can’t live up to the famous reputation of his whale hunting father and veteran warrior mother... Oh, wait.”

“It’s not that they don’t like you. They just...” here your mother paused, her diplomacy skills put to the test, “expect more, from both of us.”

“RIght, so we’re a team. From here on out we’re in this together.”

She sighed and said, “Fine. Come with me to dinner, but let me be the one to tell them.”

“Yes. Of course. You give them the good news.”

“I’ll wait until after dinner. Pa is always in a better mood with a full stomach.”

“Good. Then your parents will have to let us get married.” I stopped thinking about the wedding and started thinking about you. I turned to your mother and said, “Promise me one thing, Meep.”

“What?”

“We have to name the baby Alfrik. Same as me.”

“Even if it’s a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Alfrik Alfrikson for a girl?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Alfrik Alfriksdater, if it's a girl. Meep, do you promise?”

She stopped and looked down. You never want to see your mother look away from you like that. Like she would rather look at the dirt than you.

I asked softly, “What’s wrong with my name?”

“It’s not only your name. It’s your father’s name too.”

Have they told you anything about your grandfather? The original Alfrik? Have you heard that he was a mighty whale hunter, harpooning the shiny black beasts even through the thickest ice? How he single handedly turned our little fishing village into a thriving city? That he vanished the night the gaami appeared?

She continued, “I just don’t want what happened to your father to happen to you. Promise me you’ll never leave.”

“My father didn’t leave. He was killed by the ice monster the day I was born.”

“We don’t know that, Alfrik.”

“Are you worried about another ice monster?”

“Of course not. No city can produce more than one gaami.”

I took her gloved hand and kissed it. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving and I’m not getting killed by an ice monster.” And because it had too long since she’d smiled, I added, “Unless, your mother makes radish soup again. That would kill me.”

We continued down the road and through the snow-dusted city gates. Polaris citizens in thick furs and heavy boots drifted past. The sharp tang of gutted fish and mammoth tallow wafted up from the market. Finally, we arrived at the spherical tower where your mother lived with your grandparents. 

At the time your grandfather was the captain of the Iqtaan city watch. He was a stout man, one more interested in patrolling the taverns and bakeries of the city than anywhere else. Your grandmother was frail and quiet, like a timid bunting bird. I never understood why your grandfather married her. The woman couldn’t bake her way out of breakfast if you gave her a hot oven, a muffin tin, and an army of plump biscuit dough.

Your grandfather took one look at me, then at your mother, then at your grandmother. When he couldn’t read the reason why I was at his doorstep written somewhere on our foreheads, he scowled.

Before your grandfather decided to call his underlings to have me forcibly removed, I spat out, “Mingaborg and I are getting married as soon as possible because we are going to have a baby.”

Your mother put her face in her hands.

I expected your grandparents to look surprised, or even angry, but instead they slowly turned to face at each other. Your grandfather let out a sigh of resignation and your grandmother’s face pinched, as if she was about to cry.

Your mother straightened her shoulders and said calmly, “Why don’t we go in and have supper? We can talk while we eat.”

“Yes, let's eat,” your grandfather said.

The rituals of scooping, pouring, and cutting food seemed to sooth your grandparents. Thankfully, there were no radishes in sight and the leek stew was thick with barley, celery root and parsnips. While your grandfather chewed and swallowed, your grandmother mused about diapers, rabbit fur baby carriers, color schemes for a nursery. Neither one of them looked at or spoke to me. It was like I was a stinky fart that they were too polite to acknowledge.

After your grandmother proposed a third color scheme for the nursery she would set up in their house, something dawned on me. Your grandmother was talking as if your mother and the baby would still be living with them.

I spoke up, “I know my cottage isn’t as spacious as your house, but my wife and the baby will be living with me, at my house.”

Your grandmother blinked as if she’d forgotten I was there. Your grandfather frooze, fork full of whipped rømmegrøt pudding.

Your grandfather mumbled, “If you can call the pile of sticks you live in a house.”

“Pa, please.” Your mother protested, “Alfrik’s cottage isn’t so small.”

Then your grandmother said brightly to your mother, “Yes, of course dear. We’re just talking about when you and the baby come to visit us.”

“And what about the wedding? You haven’t said anything about the wedding.” I asked. “We want to get married right away.”

Your grandfather wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaned forward, and asked me, “Have you noticed anything odd about you lately, Alfrik?“

I shrugged. “Everything about me is odd.“

“Anything with ice?”

I thought of how the fishing holes had closed up overnight but said, “No.”

“Good, then maybe…”

“Maybe what?” your mother asked. “What does ice have to do with a wedding?”

“Nothing. Let’s get the priest,” your grandfather said, pushing back his chair and standing up.

“Right now?” I asked. Of course I wanted to get married right away, but I hadn’t expected your grandparents to agree so quickly.

Your grandfather was already in the mudroom, reaching for his parka and gloves. “You said as soon as possible,” he called back. “What’s done is done. Like a half eaten pie, might as well finish it.”

I don’t remember much of the wedding ceremony that evening. I do remember how the fragrance of leeks and celery root hung in the sitting room. Also, the fire in your grandparents’ hearth felt particularly hot as the priest recited the benediction. I remember that when I brought your mother to my cottage on the outskirts of the city, she only carried a satchel full of clothes and a jar with some leftover rømmegrøt. Finally, I remember it felt very cold bringing her inside the sitting room, but we warmed up quickly once we got into bed.

Those early days, your mother and I were happy, if poor. She found work at the lumber fields, but her ability to haul and climb shrank as her belly grew. I was less than productive. Even though the days grew longer, I found less and less fish as the ice fields under my feet grew thicker and thicker. 

Eventually, I gave up fishing and looked for other work. I went to the sawmill to ask for a job, but there was a freak blizzard and it froze all the machinery. I went to the fields, but the farmers said they didn’t need any workers until harvest time. I even asked about joining the army, but the recruiter told me that my heart was too weak. (I’d had a skiing accident when a tree ran into me the year before.)

By the end of the summer, the fields were nearly bursting with food. The news of the expected bumper crop had swollen the city workers expecting to pick their way to a profit. The city streets were fit to burst with migrant workers and new buildings to house the growing population were going up all over the city. 

Your mother and I barely had enough money to pay for food and we were eating supper with your grandparents nearly every day. I didn’t even mind the radish stew anymore, but I was ashamed we didn’t have any better options. I was worried because you would be coming soon and I needed to find work. One evening after supper, I decided to ask your grandfather for help. 

While your mother and grandmother were sorting through color swatches, I pulled your grandfather aside. 

“Sir, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Let me guess, you need money.”

“What I need is a job. I thought, since you’re in charge of the city watch and all the newcomers in town, you might need some extra help patrolling the streets.”

“We’re not looking to hire right now, and if we were, we wouldn’t take men with weak hearts and even weaker morals.”

“Ouch. Would you like to stab me in the eye with a fork too? Or maybe hint that I’m not the baby’s father because I’m not a real man.”

“Here.” Your grandfather took a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a pouch that clinked when he set in in my hand. “This will hold you until the baby is born.”

Shame flooded me. I didn’t want to take his money, not after what he must think of me, but what choice did I have? I clenched my teeth and forced myself to say “Thank you, sir.”

That evening, your mother spread out a new blanket over our bed. You probably know the one. It has the pink annuqi crystal pattern around the border. I came up behind her and put my arms around her. Her belly was round and swollen, like a giant Lingonberry, barely fitting under her nightgown.

“Where did you get that blanket?” I asked, worried how she managed to afford such a luxury.

“The foreman at the mill gave it to me. He felt bad that I couldn’t work in the lumberyard anymore.”

I remembered how the foreman had shouted at me the day I’d gone to the mill to ask for a job. The pompous pig had stormed and raged, as if I’d been responsible for the freak ice storm at the mill. It wasn’t my fault that the mill had to close until everything thawed out.

Anger shot out of me, like the pent up breath of a whale spout. “I don’t want that jackass’s charity.”

Your mother snapped back, “And why not? It’s getting colder and colder everyday in this house. Sometimes my feet go numb in bed. I keep the fire going all day, but it barely keeps the chill out. We can’t afford to refuse his, or anyone else’s, kindness.”

Stung by her tone, I shrank back and mumbled, “It doesn’t feel cold to me.”

Her voice grew even sharper, “Alfrik, I think it’s time you accept that you won't be able provide for me and the baby.”

I reeled at her accusation. You know what your mother is like when she is angry, cool and assessing, like she knows exactly how to slice you up and turn you into chum. But this time, her fury was white hot and barely contained. 

I sputtered, “What? Of course I’ll provide for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Then, your mother’s face crumpled, the outrage melting into worry. She bit her lip and turned away. “I can’t…”

“What is it?” I asked, her sudden silence more concerning than her outburst.

“It’s nothing.” She shook her head and sat down on the bed. “Forget about it. Let’s just enjoy the time we have together.”

I sat down next to her and asked, “Why is it that you and your parents keep acting like I’m going to leave? I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She sighed and cradled her swollen belly. “My parents told me what really happened to your father.”

Even though the widows were closed, it felt like an icy wind blew through the room. “The night the gammi killed him?“ I asked softly.

She turned to look at me, pity creasing her face. “Alfrik, he wasn’t killed by the gammi, he became the gaami. It’s happening to you, too. “

I stilled, my mind unable to comprehend what she’d just said. “No, you’re wrong.” Then I stood up and said more loudly, “You’re wrong.”

“See. This is why I didn’t want to say anything. I knew you’d be upset.” She pleaded, “Just forget about it. Let’s try to make the most of the time we have left.”

You must forgive what I did next. I regret the way I left and I always will. Tell your mother I’m sorry.

I grabbed my ice fishing gear, a lantern, my black seal skin cloak, and my maps. I shouted at her, “You’re wrong. You’re all wrong. I’m going to go out there and fish until the sun comes up. I’m going to hook the biggest catch you’ve ever seen, just like my father did. And we’ll never need to take charity ever again.” 

I checked my maps and made for the line where the ice met the sea. I planned to find the sweet spot where the fish were thick enough to scoop out with a net and the ice thin enough to cut a generous hole. I walked and I walked and I walked. But no matter how long I walked, I never reached the water. The more I walked, the further the ice stretched ahead of me.

I trudged on, even as sadness and fatigue weighed on me. Then I heard a cracking noise underneath me. I looked down, but saw nothing. I took another step and heard the sharp sound again, like a bone breaking. I stepped forward again, this time, watching the ice underfoot. Thick veins of blue-white shot out from under my boot, thickening and strengthening the ice around me.

I looked up to the empty night sky. I thought of all the signs I’d willfully ignored before -- the thickening ice whenever I tried to fish, the blizzard at the mill, the growing coldness in my house, my father’s disappearance, my mother joining the army the day I started to shave. Shame and guilt swallowed me. I realized that your mother had been right. It was me. I was turning into a monster.

Don’t ever look at the night sky when you’re sad. It reminds you how alone you are. 

What could I do? Was it too late? Maybe I could find a cure.

I turned back to the lights of Iqtaan. Even from so far off and in the middle of the night, I could tell that the city had grown. Flickering lights in distant windows illuminated plump white towers. 

I needed to go back to you and your mother. I had to fix things.

No longer fueled by blind defiance, it took me longer to get back to the city. On the dark road, just outside the city gates, a patrol of watchmen approached me, weapons drawn.

“Stop, state your name and your business.” The watchman called out, the glare from the lantern making me squint.

“I’m coming back from some night fishing.” I called out. “My name is Alfrik Alfrikson.”

The watchmen stood up straighter and turned to his companion, “Quick. Get the chief.”

“Please, I need to get home to my wife.” With no better strategy, I fell back on bad humor, “If I don’t get home soon, she might forget about me and fall in love with the cat.”

“Shut it, smart mouth. You’ll wait there until the boss comes or I’ll run you through.” A cold wind ruffled the fur around his hood, and I could see the fear in his eyes. Did they know about me? About my father?

Several minutes later, your grandfather arrived carrying a large satchel with something bulking strapped to his back. 

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why can’t I go home?”

“We both know why. It isn’t safe for you to be in the city.”

“But Meep… ”

“She’s fine. Her water broke a couple hours ago. The midwife says she’s doing well.”

A new panic seized me. “The baby is coming? I need to be there.” My voice came out all scratchy and desperate.

“It’s too dangerous.”

I clenched my fists and forced myself to stay calm, “I would never hurt my wife or our child. Let me pass.”

I took a step forward.

The watchman warned, “Halt. Not another step.” 

You should know that telling me not to do something usually has the opposite effect. 

I moved closer. The warrior lifted his club, as a ripple of ice shot through the ground. The streak of ice jumped up about of the ground and through his body, paralyzing him with cold.

Stunned, I froze, as if I’d been the one to be turned to ice and not the blue-white man in front of me.

Your grandfather said, “I’ll make sure Mingaborg and the child are taken care of.” Then he reached back. He held out an angular mask with bone white antlers thrusting out from the top. “Here put it on. Go east to the archipelago. Maybe you’ll find your father.”

Please understand. Please forgive me, but your grandfather was right. You would never be safe if I stayed. 

My voice was tight when I said, “I never got to say goodbye.”

I felt like a fish, trapped under a slab of cold fate. I imagined taking a step forward and freezing all of them. But then what would that make me? What would that make you? 

Slowly, I reached for the gaami’s mask. Its narrow eyes stared up at me, animalistic and menacing in my hands. 

I couldn’t bear to put it on. Not yet. Instead I asked, “Let me write a letter before I go,” pulling out the maps and the stick of charcoal from my satchel. 

“Very well,” your grandfather said, “write your letter.”

I squatted down on bare ground, flipped over the map to the blank side, and began to write.

Dear Alfrik.


End file.
